The Gaze of a Stranger
by Rose of Pearl
Summary: Don was thirteen years old when his little brother was taken. Twentyfour years later, the FBI agent has devoted his entire life to finding Charlie, but all seems in vain...until one big case requires some outside help. gasp: SHE LIVES!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own any Numb3rs characters, nor am I making any money off of this story.

Author's Note: I have no idea how long actual IQ tests of this magnitude take, nor do I have any idea how old Charlie was when his genius was discovered (I know it was mentioned at one point, but I can't remember).

The Gaze of a Stranger

_Prologue_

It had been two days since the results came back. After a week of testing, it had been confirmed that four-year old Charlie Eppes was, certifiably, a genius.

But what did that _mean_? He was extraordinary, to be sure. The world would never view him as just another face in the crowd. Throughout his entire life, he would be accorded special treatment—the treatment due to one of such mental stature.

To thirteen-year old Don Eppes, it meant that his baby brother, his number one fan, was special. Too special.

For the past week, all he had heard from his parents, the IQ testers, even his friends, was "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie." His brother's name dominated all conversations; whether he was out playing baseball with his friends, twirling spaghetti around a fork while laughing as Charlie made faces into his spoon, or staring vacantly out a car window trying to purge the C word from his memory by losing himself in the blur of passing scenery, Don _could not escape _his brother's name. Not even when he thundered over home plate after smashing the pitch into next week did his parents—or anyone else, for that matter—forget about his little brother's soon-to-be-determined brainpower. In its ecstatic discovery of a baby genius, the world had forgotten about Don.

That was not to say that everyone in the neighborhood knew Charlie was a genius. It was too soon for that. Rather, everyone knew that Charlie was being _tested _for genius.

Don had been approached by so many people in the past week, so many strangers who had somehow heard of his brother, all asking after the probable Eppes prodigy. He wanted to ignore them, but when he tried his parents glared. So instead he contented himself with an "I don't know" or "It's too soon to tell" and hurried away. Now that the results were in, however, he didn't have that excuse.

Don's little brother was really starting to bug him.

But that wasn't important right now.

Willing himself to concentrate on something _other _than his brother, Don stepped up to the plate and readied his bat. Gluing his eyes to the ball, he prepared himself to swing.

_"Your son is really quite extraordinary, Mrs. Eppes. Charlie's mathematical skills are astoundingly advanced…"_

Strike one, as the ball flew by. Don swore to himself and wrenched his mind back to the present.

_"Wow, Don, your brother's a real genius! That's so cool! Hey Charlie, come here a sec…"_

Strike two, an eerily accurate clone of strike one. 'PAY ATTENTION!' Don screamed at himself.

_"Isn't this wonderful, Don? Aren't you proud of your brother?"_

Proud. Yeah right.

"_Isn't this wonderful?"_

The pitcher wound up.

_"Aren't you proud?"_

Any second now.

_"Aren't you proud?"_

Almost. Almost.

_"Aren't you— _

"Go Donnie! You can do it!"

As the pitcher released the ball, Don smiled to himself. Genius or not, Charlie was _still _his number one fan.

The bat connected with a resounding crack, and the ball flew skyward. Not bothering to sprint, Don commenced jogging around the bases, grinning maniacally with pride and glorying in the wild cheers that had erupted in the stands. That ball wasn't coming back.

The game had ended with Don's team firmly in the lead. Excitement still coursed through the crowd, and congratulations flew freely as exultant parents hugged their children and trumpeted their triumphs to the world. Don took in compliment after compliment from family, friends, and teammates, reveling in the attention: you couldn't have too much of a good thing.

Foremost in the compliment gallery was, of course, Charlie. The tiny boy was leaping about in a state of hyper ecstasy. Don laughed as his little brother cavorted in circles around him, defying gravity to celebrate his idol's victory. Charlie's mop of crazy curls bounced in tune to his exultation, rising and falling in a dark halo of reflected sunshine.

The wild victory dance came to an abrupt end when one of the team parents leaned forward with interest and asked of Alan and Margaret Eppes, loud enough for several people to hear, "Isn't your son the little boy being tested as a genius?"

Charlie's exuberant smile faded in midair, and Don scowled as a shyness attack propelled his little brother's tiny hand into his own. The focus of everyone's attention shifted abruptly from Don to the little boy timidly peeking out from behind him. Don's scowl deepened as he realized that this incident was only the beginning of a whole new life: Charlie was always going to steal the show from now on. No, forget that, Charlie _was _the show now. The star actor had emerged, and the supporting cast was being dismissed with a volley of pink slips.

A whimper sounded behind him, and Don quickly loosened his grip on Charlie's fingers, his scowl banished by guilt. Shaking loose his brother's hold on his hand, he turned and walked away, leaving a cluster of parents—including his own—gawking after him.

"Donnie, wait for me!"

Don walked faster. 'Go back, Charlie. The spectators came to the zoo to see the prize monkey. They'll be disappointed if they don't get their money's worth.'

"Donnie!"

Don stormed along the bleachers, lengthening his stride. Behind him, he could hear the patter of Charlie's feet as he strained to keep up with his big brother.

"Donnie, wait!"

Only when chubby fingers brushed the back of his jersey did an exasperated Don at last whirl to face his brother. "What is it, Charlie?"

"I want to go with you."

Looking into the earnest face of the baby genius, Don felt his anger fade, to be replaced by guilt. He knew he was hurting his brother by running away, and he wanted to make it up to him.

"Hey little genius, what's 312 times 47?"

Don's anger returned full force, and he whirled to face his friend Tom.

"If you want to do a math problem, go find a calculator!" he yelled in his startled friend's face. Wheeling back to his original direction, he continued his stalk along the bleacher's edge. After a few steps, he heard Tom follow. And of course, someone else followed as well.

"Donnie—"

Whirling yet again, Don turned to face his brother. Pretty soon he would just turn into a merry-go-round.

Not bothering to hide his frustration, Don bent down, picked up his little brother, and deposited him on the bench. Gripping his brothers wrists to keep him still, he snapped, "Listen, Charlie, _I_ _don't want you following me all the time!_ I need some time by myself, _without you_! I want you to stay right here, and don't bother me!" The knowledge that he was hurting his brother resurfaced, but this time Don welcomed it. After all of the pain and frustration that Charlie had caused him, the little boy deserved to taste a little in repayment. "You really think I want to play with you all the time? You think I want to play with you at all! OF COURSE I DON'T! Why in hell would I wanna spend time with a snot-nosed, crybaby, too-smart-for-you brat? Why would I even wanna _look _at you! You're just a spoiled brat, and _leave me alone!_" Don was yelling by the time he finished, and as he held his brother's gaze, he saw the tears pooling in his eyes. Guilt resurfaced, but he pushed it back down. He had a right to be angry, didn't he? He had a right to remind the world of the damage its lack of caring was causing. Glaring at his brother for a moment more, he released his little arms and stormed away.

Tom was staring openly now, and he wasn't the only one. But Don ignored them all, treating them to a taste of their own medicine. 'Your opinions aren't worth crap to me! And neither are you!' his mind raged. 'Do you see that now? Do you realize that I'm ignoring you 'cause I don't care about you? You'd better!' The bleachers opened up as he reached the middle, splitting into two sections. The space between them formed a path back to the parking lot. He stalked past the fissure and continued onward, the end of the row—and a corner around which he could disappear—beckoning to him.

He heard the murmur of many voices around him. Some of those voices were discussing him. Some weren't. And, despite how far he had stalked, one sobbing, hiccupping voice in particular suddenly cut into his mind again.

"Wh-who're you?"

Don snarled, drowning out the voice.

"B-but I d-don't want—"

He walked faster.

"Donnie!"

Even faster.

"DONNIE!"

Something about his name, voiced with such fear, at last arrested Don's angry march. His little brother's call compelled him to turn around—and find nothing.

Despite his noise, Charlie was gone from the bench that Don had designated for his temporary prison. In fact, he was no where in sight. A cold chill suddenly tingled down Don's spine, and for all the speed he had poured into getting _away _from his brother, he was suddenly rushing back twice as fast.

He flew along the stands, a one-sided corridor guiding him to fate. As he came to the gap between the rows, he glanced down it—and saw his little brother, hand in hand with a stranger, being tugged along. Charlie was wrenching back and forth, struggling against the man's grip, but not succeeding in his bid for freedom. People were staring, but none came forward to question the stranger.

"Charlie!" Don yelled, giving chase to the pair. Charlie turned to search for his brother, and Don clearly picked out the fearful tears that slid over his face.

As Charlie turned, so did the stranger.

Ice green eyes fixated on Don, gazing with a power that sent chills slashing up and down the boy's spine. The tanned face held a warm smile, the smile a parent might bestow upon a child, but upon observing his pursuer, that kindly expression quickly became a taunt. A ludicrous smile appeared on the man's face, a malignant light sparkled in his eyes, and his pace quickened as he challenged Don to a race—a race for Charlie. This stranger knew the pain he was currently inflicting upon Don—only a fool could have missed the desperation in the teen's eyes—and the very idea of it made him squirm with a feral joy.

The evident enjoyment in the stranger's bearing increased the fear that was quickly icing over Don's heart. He urged his legs to move faster, far faster than he had ever run in his life, and his lungs began to scream in burning agony as he outran his air supply. He pushed away the fire, though, and only ran faster.

The stranger was speeding up. He had almost reached the curb, where a black sedan sat, waiting.

Don snarled. No way was anybody taking his baby brother into that car.

The stranger reached the car.

Don ran faster.

He opened the door.

Even faster.

He hefted Charlie and threw him inside.

Faster!

Then he turned, and with a cheery wave and a malicious grin, he disappeared into a cavern of black upholstery.

When Don finally reached the curb, all that remained of the sedan was the piercing screech of abused tires and the scream of an accelerating engine. Don didn't care, though. The chase was still on!

He took off in pursuit of the car, his legs pumping and his heart pounding. The car was easily visible ahead of him: it had not yet left the parking lot.

Through the rear windshield, a mop of unruly curls rose into view. Don's laborious breathing efforts nearly failed as his brother's eyes met his own over the back of the seat. Charlie's mouth opened, and although Don could not hear the voice, he knew that his brother was once again calling for help from his idol.

The tears on Charlie's face spilled over onto Don's as the car pulled away. Don's knees abruptly gave out, and an eternity later, his parents found him huddled in the middle of the street, mourning a loss that shriveled his heart. He had lost the race: he had failed his brother. Now all Don had left of his number one fan were the tears on his own face and the imagined howl of his brother's voice, still sobbing out his own name. Then the torment of his parents stole even his fancies, and all that remained to him were the tears.


	2. Chap 1: The Scrapbook

Author's Note: Ok, it's been a while, I admit it. Anybody reading this story, take my advice: just check back every week or so. Updates will be slow in coming, but they _will _come, I promise.  
Huge thanks to all those who reviewed! Whether it's feedback or just plain old support, all reviews are always welcome. …Ok, flames aren't that welcome. If you want to give me feedback, you need to be polite, or I'll ignore you.  
One more thing… "Chile genius kidnapped…", "Margaret Eppes admitted…" and "Still no information…" are all newspaper articles. The titles don't really stand out.  
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: Same as for previous chapter. (I hate reading disclaimers over and over again…)

_Chapter 1: The Scrapbook _

Child genius kidnapped during family outing  
Amelia Darning  
June 10, 1980

On the afternoon of June 9, child genius Charles Eppes was kidnapped during the aftermath of a baseball game.

The entire Eppes family was present at the game to watch the performance of Don Eppes, the eldest child of the family. Witnesses say that, after the game ended, Charles, known to his family as Charlie, was celebrating the victory of Don's team with his family. Margaret and Alan engaged in conversation with Ms. Lydia Range. During their conversation with Ms. Range, Don left his parents, and Charlie followed.

Reportedly, the brothers got into a fight and separated. Charlie was left by himself on one of the bleachers that edge the field. It was at this time that the kidnapper struck.

"It's frightening," Isabel White, a nearby witness, stated. "I saw the man walking, and he smiled at me, very calm, like he was supposed to be there. I saw the little boy trying to get away, but from the way the man looked, kind of embarrassed, I just assumed he was a parent leaving with a child who was acting up. I never suspected otherwise."

Upon realizing that his brother had been taken, Don pursued the abductor, but was unsuccessful in preventing the kidnapper from escaping. Alan and Margaret pursued as well, but were likewise unsuccessful in saving their son.

Don described the kidnapper as tan, green-eyed, blonde-haired, and tall. He wore a dark green t-shirt and blue jeans. The man escaped with Charlie in a waiting vehicle, described as a black sedan with black upholstery. The driver of the vehicle was not seen.

"I saw the man get into the car with my son, but I was too far away to stop him. I tried to catch up, but they were just too far away," stated a shocked Alan Eppes.

His tearful wife, Margaret, added, "Please, if anyone has seen my son, help bring him home to me. I just want my baby boy back!"

Young Don Eppes was not available for comment.

This kidnapping occurred a mere two days after it was confirmed that Charlie is a child genius, a four-year old with an astounding grasp of mathematical concepts.

Howard Strong of Strong IQ Testing Facility had this to say: "This situation is a great shame. Charlie is a brilliant little boy, but over the course of the week that I worked with him, I came to realize that he is very sensitive and timid. He needs the love and support of his family as other people need air and water. Such a situation is sure to incur trauma, perhaps of the permanent variety, especially when his youth is taken into account."

Despite a city-wide search and a continuing police investigation, Charles Eppes has not been seen since yesterday afternoon.

* * *

Don turned the page of the scrapbook. There were so many clippings trapped between its covers, and he knew them all by heart. But still he skimmed through, reminding himself. One particularly painful article caught his eye.

* * *

Margaret Eppes admitted to psychiatric ward  
Amelia Darning  
August 1, 1980

Margaret Eppes, mother of Charles Eppes, the young boy who was kidnapped over a month ago, has suffered a nervous breakdown and been admitted to Holly Oaks Psychiatric Ward.

Margaret, whose health has been declining since the disappearance of her son, was declared mentally unstable two days ago by clinical psychiatrist Helen Blake.

"This has been very hard on all of us, but Maggie has been taking it the hardest," husband Alan Eppes stated.

The remainder of the Eppes family, Alan and thirteen-year old Don Eppes, has acknowledged the receipt of a lot of support from friends and family to help them deal with this latest blow to the Eppes family unit….

* * *

Don really didn't want to read anymore of that article. Why should he read it when he had lived it? Then again, if that was the case, why read any of these? He already knew the answer to that oh-so-frequent question, and so he banished the query away and continued skimming, until he came to the very last newspaper clipping.

* * *

Still no information on the whereabouts of Charles Eppes  
Amelia Darning  
December 14, 1980

A full six months after the disappearance of four-year old Charles Eppes, the child genius remains unfound.

The police investigation into this matter continues, but as of yet has yielded no results.

…Margaret Eppes, mother to Charles, suffered a nervous breakdown in August, but has now recovered with the help of her family.

…Alan Eppes vows "We still have hope that he'll be found safely, and we'll never stop expecting him to come home."

* * *

Don closed the scrapbook. He'd accomplished what he needed to, and the thought of reading the rest of what lay within this book's pages made his heart ache. Truth be known, ecstasy had _not _been a factor in his decision to skim these pages. He hadn't read any of these heartrending memoirs because he wanted to—he had read them because he _needed _to. 

Even after all these years, whenever uncertainty clouded his mind, it was always Charlie he returned to. Ironically, reminding himself of his little brother's disappearance and reopening the wounds that time—almost a quarter of a century—had dulled never failed to pull Don out of whatever depressed funk he had fallen into.

Working as an FBI agent was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it gave Don the expertise, connections, and opportunities to continue searching for his little brother. On the other hand, this business tended to show him a lot of the uglier aspects of life. Most of the time he could handle the gruesome particulars of any case that came his way. But the Coast Killer…this one was burrowing under his skin.

It wasn't just that all the victims of the Coast Killer turned up beaten almost beyond recognition, raped and broken, the ghost of fear still visible on long-dead faces. It wasn't just that some of the victims had been snatched from places where they shouldn't have been, places where they were _supposed _to be safe. It wasn't even just that Don could relate so well to the terrifying state of helplessness that descended on the people that the victims left behind in the land of the living, unknowing what had happened to their loved ones until the fateful visit that informed them that their lost ones had been found.

What was really bothering him about this case was that it was going nowhere.

The Coast Killer had been on the loose for almost a year, abducting and mutilating victims that appeared to have no connection. Male or female, young or old, blonde, brunette, or redhead—the people who wound up dead were entirely dissimilar, as far as the FBI could tell. And now there was the matter of location.

For a full ten months, the Atlantic Coast had been terrorized by the Coast Killer. Now old CK had made his way on over to the Pacific.

And, just as had been the case on the eastern fringe of the nation, the western feds were having absolutely no luck in apprehending this guy.

That was what had brought Don back to the scrapbook. In this time of utter hopelessness, he felt useless, impotent. He needed motivation. The rage over his brother's kidnapping, and the determination to find him, did nicely. As always.

Don replaced the scrapbook in its sheltered niche, out of sight, but never out of reach. That done, he squared his shoulders and left his little brother's room, a new edge on his desire to rid the streets of yet another scumbag. By Hell's gates, he would help take down the Coast Killer and either throw him behind bars, or kick the sick bastard's head in—preferably the latter.


	3. Chap 2: A Time of Frustration

Wow…it's been a long time (cringe). Sorry guys, I didn't mean it, I swear! Ok, well you're not here to listen to my lame excuses, so I won't give you any…I'm not totally happy with this chapter, I didn't quite feel it like it did the previous two…oh well, who cares, if I don't post soon I'm gonna drive myself crazy so, here you go.

Disclaimer standard stuff you've heard billions of times before boring if you wanna read it so bad go to some other fic, thank you very much

Laterz!

_Chapter 2: A Time of Frustration_

"…please help us find her. She means the world to us—please, if you see her, help her! Help us!"

Eric Rosavelasquez sighed and turned away from the image of the grief-stricken woman. Captured within a box of plastic and glass, Cassie Belfall was tearfully mourning the loss of her 13-year old daughter, Natalie. Unfortunately for the Belfalls, Natalie was suspected of having been abducted by the Coast Killer. And, throughout his entire reign of terror, no victim of the Coast Killer had ever returned alive.

The media had a field day every time a new CK vic turned up. Eric doubted that a single person in the entire country didn't know of that sick psycho's exploits. Every person in the country, however, did not have Eric's job, and every person in the country was certainly not blessed with all the lovely details of each heinous killing, courtesy of said job.

Eric had lost count of the times he had had to bite back nausea, swallow down bile, and force himself not to acquaint everyone in the room with his lunch whenever he beheld the Coast Killer's handiwork. The world spun when each new murder was described to him, and he felt downright faint when the photos arrived to support the telling. The indisputable proof that a human being would willingly do something like…_that_…to another person made Eric sick at heart—and to his stomach. He would be perfectly happy living in ignorance of the whole affair, yet such contentment had refused itself as an option to him. Being a math consultant really bites sometimes.

At any rate, Eric was not entirely unhappy with his intimate knowledge of the bastard's antics. Although he would have boycotted chalk for a week if it meant forgoing the graphic visuals, he was more than ready to accept and work with the data available. He had, in fact, done a lot of work with all the known data—enough to lead him to a breakthrough in this case, something nobody else had yet managed.

His discovery had led the FBI excitingly close to an arrest—and yet, at the last instant, CK had disappeared, without the hint of a trace as to where he had gone, or who he might be. Simmering with anger, the disappointed feds had assumed that CK's disappearance meant that he would be lying low for a while, letting his trail get cold, and allowing the world—and the people who wanted to either arrest or shoot him—to forget about him. Yet, as was currently apparent, this line of thinking was dismally flawed.

The Coast Killer—or a damn good copycat—had reappeared…on the west coast.

Eric first received word of this new development about a month ago, not from his job, but from the media. Presumably, this meant that the FBI was no longer interested in his services. But, then again…about two days ago, Eric received a phone call. In this call, he was informed that his presence was wanted out west, in Los Angeles to be precise, to once again aid the Bureau in the hunt for the Coast Killer.

Eric had never been to the west coast before. But something about LA…there was something there, buried beneath the glamour of that faraway city, that had always captured his imagination. It fascinated him to such an extent that he agreed to the hours-long plane ride, the stress of packing, and the all-out frustration of moving himself and his precious instruments to the opposite shore of the US of A. He was willing to set up a temporary base of operations so far away if it meant satisfying the curiosity that was now plaguing him in force. If not for the allure of LA, he might have declined a further hand in the hunt for the Coast Killer.

It didn't really matter right now, though. Curiosity had reared its chaotic head and ensnared him with a glance. He had agreed to the trip, and his plane left tomorrow morning. He and LA had a date with destiny—and Eric Rosavelasquez had never in his life let destiny get the better of him. In fact—

CRASH! With a sharp yelp of shock, Eric nearly jumped out of his skin, leaping up from the couch and hefting the remote as a weapon, ready to give new face implants to whoever had just smashed into his apartment. He decided against crushing a soft rubber numbers pattern into somebody's face, however, when he realized just who it was that had invaded.

Selena Evans, fresh from damn near ripping his door off the hinges, and from actually knocking exactly four picture frames from the walls, one basket from a side table, an umbrella stand from the freakin' _floor, _and two math awards from a supposedly Selena-proof display case, bounced into the room with enough energy to power all of New York City for 3.47 years.

Selena spotted him instantly, and pounced across the room as he lowered his impromptu weapon with an exasperated grin. Returning his smile, she grabbed him by the arm, turned around, and started hauling him back the way she had come.

"Last night here, cariño, and you know how I hate to waste an excuse to party!"

"Selena, when was the last time you even bothered to _find _an excuse to party?"

He heard the laughter in her voice as she mulled it over for a second. "Ummm…never. Who cares, let's go!"

Glancing over his shoulder at the damage of Hurricane Selena, he decided that it wasn't too bad, comparatively. He dropped the remote in a pocket of one of the coats that hung next to the door, and calculated how long it would take to repair the damage caused by the erratic woman attached to his arm. Then all thoughts of cleaning a messy house were wiped from his mind as said woman pulled him out the door and locked it behind them. Eric smiled as he let himself forget about LA, if only for the next couple of hours. Selena would not be denied anything, and as they made their way down the stairs ("Elevators are for sissies," she purred in his ear), he knew that every club in town was about to get hit by a storm.


	4. Chap 3: Taking to the Skies

Gasp! Two updates in two days! Holy wow! (Yes, I do say "Holy wow" on a habitual basis. Sue me, I won't care) Ok, I like this chapter more than the last one, and I've got outlines for several chapters to come…now all I have to do is type them up.

Hey, guess what? Today is my second day of college! Unfortunately, this means I now have work that just might come between my darling story and myself. (random person: So why didn't you work more on the story _before _college started! Huh? Rose of Pearl: **cringes **I don't know! **sobs**) But, as evidenced by the semi-double update, I'm still workin' on it!

Many many thanks go to all the people who have reviewed. Reviews are lovely. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Many many thanks go also to all the non-reviewers who are sticking with this story. You make me happy! (**facepalm!** mutters: that sounded so corny…)

…Right. Well, ttyl!

Disclaimer: blah blah blah

_Chapter 3: Taking to the Skies _

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Eric tried to settle down for the long flight ahead. He had taken flights of this length before, but still…that didn't mean he liked them. There was always something that bothered him about the fact that, if even one of the many variables that each had to be in perfect position and have the perfect value in order to balance the equation of flying, happened to fall out of alignment…now, what was it that was bothering him? It was on the tip of his tongue…right there…oh yeah: if the equation faltered, he would _die_.

Shuddering at the thought, Eric closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. A touch of wonder penetrated the curtain of fear that had suddenly tackled him: what in the world was going on here? Sure, he had never _liked _flights, but he had _never _had this kind of problem before. He always put his faith in the airlines, in the people who ran them, and, most importantly, in the math that made it all possible. Yet here he was, practically shaking in his seat. What was it about this flight that had him spooked? Maybe it had something to do with the Coast Killer? No. Perhaps last night's romp through every dance club in existence had left him overtired, on edge? No, not that either. Then what…LA. Out of all the variables involved, his destination was the most unique. Was that it, then? 'There's something about LA, something that I'm not telling myself,' he concluded silently. Taking another deep breath, he reached for his shoulder bag, and the tiny package within.

The package was not his. In fact, it had only gotten into his bag about 45 minutes ago. Selena was trying to be sneaky and slip it in without his noticing. She kinda failed, but oh well. Eric knew she wanted to surprise him, so he kept it quiet that her subtlety was somewhat lacking. He wasn't quite sure what was in it, but he had a feeling he knew. And even if he turned out to be wrong, he knew he could count on _any_ gift from Selena to make him feel better.

The fragile paper would have been a lot easier to tear if it wasn't covered in duct tape. Eric suppressed a groan at Selena's antics. That girl was the most endearingly evil person he had ever met. Now, how to open this? He couldn't use scissors, that was for sure. He'd probably get thrown off the plane. His nails were out: they were too short to find purchase on the slick surface of the tape. After picking at a stubby corner of the tape for a full three minutes without success, Eric at last gave up glaring for swearing, and went for his shoulder bag again. There had to be _something _he could attack this with…nail clippers! With a silent cry of 'Score!' Eric pinched the package until he had created enough of a ridge for the clippers to find purchase on, and then opened a tiny hole that was far overshadowed by his tremendous grin. Beaming triumph, he at last attained the glorious prize of his strenuous efforts: a handkerchief.

Eric blinked, puzzled. He had expected to find a handwritten note or some similar sign of affection imprisoned within this impenetrable fortress. But upon breaching the walls, he found only a square of cloth upon which he could wipe his boogers when he so found the need. Normally Selena gave presents with more meaning…wait.

Eric lifted the handkerchief to his nose and sniffed. There it was: hazelnuts. Ever since he was a child, this scent had soothed away his fears and calmed his frantic mind. It made him feel safe and loved, wanted—protected. Smiling into the handkerchief, Eric breathed deeply and let the scent envelop him. Instantly the remaining tension from his earlier episode dissolved, and the knot in his stomach untied itself. Relaxing into his seat, Eric glanced out the window.

"Oh for the love of…" The words escaped his lips before he could rein them in, and the sound of his laughter echoed softly through his section immediately thereafter. From his position in the plane, he could just make out the windows of the public section of the terminal, the section that came just before the Gates of No Return. All non-fliers were forbidden access to the Gates, and if they wanted to hang around to watch the plane of their friend or family member take off, they had to wait in this pre-Gate section. Of course, if you were Selena, you ignored Gates and waltzed on through them, causing a scene and getting shunted out when the security guards discovered you didn't have a ticket.

Through the glare of the windows, he could make out someone jumping up and down, waving wildly. The sane people passing her in the hall were giving her a wide berth, and Eric was pretty sure security would show up soon. 'Typical Selena. She never cares what anyone thinks,' he thought through his grin, knowing exactly who this nutty someone was. 'There's no way she can possibly know where I am, she's just hoping that I somehow got a seat I can see her from…damn, she beat the odds.' Eric was still grinning as the engines rumbled and the plane began to roll towards the runway.

What seemed ages later, the plane at last began to pick up speed as it prepared to thrust itself into the air. At long last, the flight stewards and stewardesses had finished their mime shows in safety, and everyone was buckled in, awaiting the near moment when the wheels of the plane would lose contact with solid ground. After that point, there would be nothing but the laws of aerodynamics and two immensely powerful engines to keep all the passengers, Eric included, from plummeting to the ground, while Gravity laughed her head off in the background. Feeling a bit of his earlier nervousness return, Eric could hear her voice in his mind: "How dare those foolish mortals attempt to defy me? Don't they have any idea who they're dealing with?"

But then he felt the handkerchief still resting lightly on his palm. With a tender smile, he breathed deep of the hazelnut scent one last time, and then folded the handkerchief into a small square, which he gently placed in his pocket. 'I'll carry you with me everywhere, Selena,' he promised. Relaxed once more, he grinned as the immense power of the engines heaved their load into the skies. 'Look out, LA. You and I have a date to keep.'


	5. Chap 4: A Night of Rest

Author's Note: Wow… pucktofaerie, you're definitely right about college. Now that I'm here and have actual work to do, I'd rather just be writing this story. Muses are weird.

Anyways, to all reviewers (especially reviewers who have reviewed multiple times): gosh you're awesome! Reviews are awesome to read, and they are only made awesome by the awesomeness of the awesome people who write them.

To all the people who don't review…I hope you like the story anyways, even though I have no way of prying into your head for your reactions cuz you're not an awesome reviewer.

Yeah…so that's pretty much all for now…

Disclaimer: you guys know the drill…bananas…

_Chapter 4: A Night of Rest_

Alan glanced up briefly as he heard the rumble of a powerful engine shutting down in his driveway. Returning his eyes to his cooking, he fished a lone noodle out of the pot of spaghetti, gently blowing on it before tasting to see if it was fully cooked. The test results came back a firm negative, informing him that this test would have to be retaken in a few minutes.

Shifting his eyes back to the frying pan in front of him, he continued stirring the sauce into the browned beef. The delicious smell of fresh spaghetti sauce assailed his nostrils even as his keen ears picked up the tell-tale click of the opening front door.

It wasn't often that Alan was able to coax his son to dinner these days, but even so, he could tell exactly what kind of a mood the FBI agent was in just by the way he walked into the kitchen. His footsteps were slow and heavy, and without turning around, Alan knew that he would find Don's face replaced by a mask of neutrality, which in turn hid a cloak of tense weariness.

Turning to his son with a welcoming smile, Alan asked the question to which he already knew the answer: "How was work today, Don?"

A sigh was his only acknowledgement for several seconds. Then, as a chair was pulled back from the table and a body collapsed into it, a response heaved itself between half-dead lips: "It sucked."

Slightly surprised, Alan regarded his son between brief glances at the contents of the stovetop—no sense in killing dinner. Don was now resting at the kitchen table, eyes covered by one hand. Based on the hazy hints he had managed to pry from his son during infrequent visits, he had surmised that the FBI workload had been sucking for quite a while, but normally Don was less blatant about it. There was just something about being vague that seemed to appeal to the FBI agent.

"Are you still working on that serial killer case?" It had been a while since their last conversation, and Alan didn't really want this one to be about the gore of an FBI life, but he couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment. He supposed he could ignore the situation and create a faux-fix by cramming food down his son's throat, but then again, that was more Marie Barone's style.

"Yeah. We think we've found another vic, but we're still waiting on DNA confirmation," Don replied half-heartedly, avoiding his father's gaze.

"Oh. Who—who was the victim?"

"Just a little girl."

Alan couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he merely sighed heavily, a sound that encompassed the universal sorrow of all parents that had ever lost a child.

Through his exhaustion, Don picked up on the sound, and quickly moved to steer the conversation away from the subject of loss. Grasping for a new topic, he settled on yet another aspect of his job, albeit a less personally depressing one.

"We've got a new guy coming in to work on the case, all the way from the east coast. He should arrive tonight."

"Oh? What kind of new guy?"

"A math consultant."

"They're shipping a math consultant coast to coast to help crack this case?" Don could hear the incredulity in his father's voice, along with a few chords of disbelief. "What exactly is a _math_ consultant going to do to help you out?"

"I don't know, but he helped out the east coast feds well enough. I don't know the inner details of the math, but whatever his work was, it nearly caught the Coast Killer."

"Really?" Alan's interest was definitely peaked by now. "How?"

"Well," Don explained, "the east coast feds had a theory that the Coast Killer was working from a base point, that after every kill, no matter how far away it was, he always went back to one particular place. Our math guy confirmed this theory, and what's more, he figured out just about where this home base was." Don rose from his chair, heading for the cabinets. "The feds searched the area for him, but by the time they got there, CK had skipped out. But they did find a place that they think was his."

"Wow. Did that help you figure out anything about who he is?"

"We got the name of the guy who was renting the apartment, but it was a fake. The guy must've known we were coming somehow, because we didn't get much DNA evidence from the scene. We did get a few prints though, and those are now in the system."

"Sounds like this math guy is going to be pretty helpful," Alan smiled, fervently hoping that his son's late nights at the office might soon come to an end.

"I hope so," Don replied, extracting two bowls from the flowery-papered depths of the cabinet. "He's a math _genius_."

Don froze as soon as he uttered the words, and watched as his father very abruptly stopped stirring the delicious smelling sauce into the steaming heap of spaghetti in the pot. 'Damn,' he cursed to himself. 'Why did I say that? I shoulda known better!' Not knowing what to say, he opted for pretending that nothing had happened, and made a mental note to finish off the math subject _now_. No sense in dredging up half-dead hopes and alive-and-kicking agony for the rest of the night.

"That's all I really know about the guy," Don ventured hesitantly, breathing a secret sigh of relief as his father resumed his stirring. "I'm not expecting the world from him. I mean sure, he's helped out a lot in this case, but then again, I have an entire team of fully trained agents working on this. I expect that we'll make more headway than him, 'cause we're the ones who'll actually be out in the field, tracking this guy down. But then again, who knows? Maybe he'll surprise me."

A strange feeling washed over Don as he settled twin bowls on the table, one at his father's place and the other directly in front of him. He was struck with a sudden sense of prophecy as his own words echoed in his mind: _"Maybe he'll surprise me."_


	6. Chap 5: Rise in the Morning

_ gasp! SHE LIVES!!!_

_Ahem._

_Hello all. I am so very terribly sorry about the huge wait between this chapter and the last. I love this story, but I have recently lost either my mojo or my muse, and whichever one up and went on vacation, took quite a while to drag its butt back here._

_The sugar high that renewed my determination to GET THIS FREAKIN CHAPTER DONE was fueled by a late night escapade partaken of by my roommate and I. Late night food cravings will never be ignored, and so we got high on stolen ice cream and lighter-smores (only after one of my marshmallows caught fire did I suggest that we should've just microwaved the stupid things) and spent about ten minutes in sugary hysteria. Mother of Bob, I love college:)_

_In response to the huge number of reviews I got for this chapter: blinks Wow. If this is what I get for pointing out the lack of awesomeness in readers who don't review, I should totally do this more often. To all my reviewers: You guys are awesome! To all of my non-reviewing readers: You guys are great! But not awesome. Awesome is reserved for reviewers. _

_You may notice that this chapter is considerably longer than any previous ones. Enjoy. _

_Anyways, without further ado, may I present to you the moment you've all been waiting for! (Seriously, I've gotten more reviews about people anticipating this particular moment than anything else in the story.) _

_Disclaimer: Mandarin oranges are the best oranges in the world._

**_  
Chapter 5: Rise in the Morning_**

The raspy bleating of his alarm clock roused Don from an unfulfilling four hours of slumber. With a groan, he waved an arm in the general direction of the offending noisemaker, succeeding in knocking it to the floor. Unfortunately, the fall failed to silence the damn thing.

'My aim is off,' he thought as he dragged himself from between the sheets. 'I need more sleep.' Scooping the alarm from the floor, he turned it off and left it in its usual place on top of the nightstand. Then he left his comfy bed behind and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

* * *

If phones could talk, this one most surely would have been shouting "Answer me you idiot!" Eric had ordered a wakeup call the night before, but even though he had been awake for the past three hours, his ears simply refused to admit the incessant noise of the handset on his nightstand. A combination of nerves and jetlag had woken him up for an east coast morning, even though west coast dawn was still hours away. And as long as he was awake, he may as well go over the material on the Coast Killer again. After all, he was going to have to meet the LA FBI team assigned to this case within a couple of hours, and it wouldn't do for them to get the impression that he had no idea what he was talking about. 

Bloodshot eyes scanned another three of the pages before him before the ringing phone finally made itself heard. With a glance of surprise and a brief "Oh", Eric dragged himself up from the desk and shuffled across the room, massaging cramps from his long-immobile legs as he walked. When he finally silenced the phone, he glanced back to his desk, which resembled more the aftermath of an exploded printer than the workplace of a nationally acclaimed math consultant. Taking a minute to go over his options, he considered. He could go over his materials yet again, taking so long that he would have barely any time to shower and no time whatsoever for breakfast, leaving him cranky, irritable, and an all around bad-first-impression kind of guy for the rest of the morning. Or, if he listened to the angels whispering in his ear, he could leave the papers be, take a nice leisurely shower, and enjoy a pleasant breakfast, leaving him happy and ready to attack today's challenges with a smile. Eric really, _really _wanted that nice shower and breakfast. But it wouldn't do to look like an idiot.

* * *

The SUV's engine rumbled to life as Don twisted the key in the ignition. Releasing the key, he pulled out of his apartment building's underground parking lot and steered out onto the street. Mingling with the morning traffic, Don kept half an eye on the road, and let the other half drift back to last night. 

After his blunder with his father, the rest of the evening had sported the occasional half-hearted attempt at casual conversation, but for the most part had passed in silence. Not awkward silence, but potentially awkward silence, the kind that might become awkward with the least nudge in the direction of awkwardness. Awkward.

Don hated himself for screwing up last night. As if his relationship with his father wasn't already messed up enough, he just _had _to go and pull out the big neon "RETARD" sign and stamp "JERK" across his forehead.

Not that last night was anything new. For a long time now, Don had been having problems with his father. Actually, he'd been having problems with his entire family…and they all started because of the one family member who wasn't there. Don knew, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that he was to blame for his brother's disappearance. His whole family knew, although his parents never said anything. His aunt had done a poor job of concealing her shock when she learned the story of Charlie's kidnapping; her speechless stare, the way she couldn't seem to look away from him when she first learned that her youngest nephew was gone because he had been left alone, had stung badly. But it was the eternal sorrow in his parents' eyes, the way they would quickly look away so he couldn't see their welling tears…that was what cut him to the core.

Don loved his family more than anything. But after he had failed them so miserably, who on Earth could possibly believe that he deserved such wonderful people in his life?

He had had to do a lot of growing up in a very short period of time when Charlie was taken. Part of him felt like some sort of warped butterfly: at the beginning he was a caterpillar, a child in the world, but his cocoon had been woven early, spun of pain and sorrow. It had been so strong that he almost couldn't break free, but ultimately he succeeded—although the end result hadn't been nearly as lovely as the average butterfly.

His eventual breakout had resulted in maturity, and consequently a heartbreaking realization: he had hurt his family, was _still _hurting his family, and the only way to fix that was to remove the cause of the hurt: he had to leave. He tried to stay strong for his parents, all the while formulating his plan of departure. He comforted them as best he could while at the same time distancing himself from them, both removing such an unworthy son from their lives, _and _punishing himself for losing Charlie. That was part of the reason he spent so much time away from California: if he wasn't with the remnants of the Eppes clan, he couldn't fail them. He came back when his mother got sick, to try and make her happy, ease her last moments, but it wasn't the same. Nothing was the same.

Perhaps the most jarring difference between his childhood and his return as an adult—besides the obvious, that is—was that, at long last, his efforts to break down the ties between himself and his parents had succeeded.

For months, he sat beside his mother, and his heart ached with the realization that he no longer knew her. The woman lying in the bed was a stranger: he knew only his memories of her, so long ago. It was for these memories that he stayed with her, holding her hand, unable to stop her illness, his heart dying a little more with each new sign of her frailty. In the end, when she lost the strength even to prop herself up in her own bed, he throbbed with sorrow, hidden tears burning, the spark of life in his eyes buried deep. But his memories of her found new life at the same time that Margaret approached death.

When she told him that she had accepted her death, he listened. And when she asked of him a promise, his world fell apart.

It had been a simple, but oh-so-complicated, request. He had expected it. But when the time came for it to be put to words, it had frozen the very blood in his veins.

"Donnie," her words were softer than a whisper: she didn't have the strength to raise her voice. "You have to keep looking for him. Promise me that you'll never stop looking for your brother."

He had promised, of course. But it confirmed something in his mind. Even after all these years, she was as he remembered: finding Charlie was her single greatest goal in life. She had often worked herself sick during her decades-long search. She pursued every lead she could find (which were despairingly few) with a single-mindedness that barred such meager things as sleep, food, and health from her radar of importance. She had continued her search until she got sick, and only then had she at last been persuaded to at least scale back the intensity of her endeavors. It took hours, the combined efforts of Don and Alan, and the explicit orders of a roomful of doctors to convince Margaret that, no matter how much one obsessed over something, extreme attention will not spawn new information from exhausted resources.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but time had apparently stopped for Margaret Eppes, until, suddenly, she had no time left.

But that was in the past, now. Dwelling on it would not help Don right now, nor would it help him patch a purposely-severed relationship with his father. But still—after all this time of searching, he had not yet succeeded. And his promise to his mother, a mere echo of one made long ago to Charlie, weighed heavily on him when he let his failure get to him.

But that only happened when he lost control. Right now, he was in control. In control of his emotions, in control of his life, in control of his actions, in control of this drive to work. He was in control of everything that mattered right now.

Except, he wasn't.

* * *

"List of things completed today: one introspectively depressing drive to work," Don muttered to himself as the elevator doors opened on his floor. Treading into the office, he headed straight for Terry's desk. The look on her face as she glanced up at him made him wish he hadn't. 

"What happened?" he asked, preparing himself for bad news. She didn't keep him waiting.

"Natalie Belfall has been found, dead."

Don swore quietly as his mind processed this information, and jumped immediately to the obvious conclusion. He looked up, ready to voice the question, but Terry had already read it in his eyes.

"Looks like another Coast Killer vic. We're still processing DNA evidence, but when it comes back we expect a confirmed CK kill."

"Damn." Why couldn't they catch this guy? Belfall ranked as his 23rd victim, and the longer CK went uncaught, the more his vics were going to keep piling up. Don sighed and ran a hand through his hair. They needed a new angle in this case, something radical that would bring the good guys back into the lead. Something…

Don's head snapped up as he regarded Terry with the closest thing he had come to excitement in a long while.

"Terry, is that math guy here yet?"

* * *

Eric shuddered with horror, echoes of the photos of a very broken, very bruised, very _dead_ Natalie Belfall performing a slideshow on repeat with his mind as the guest of honor. He knew it was necessary for him to receive all of the data pertaining to this case so that he could factor it into his assessment, but he could have done without the brief glimpse at that poor girl's body. He didn't want to imagine what her parents must be going through. 

Pushing the photo from his mind, he concentrated on setting up the spare conference room he had been given as a work area. There were a few whiteboards hanging along the walls, but nowhere near enough to satisfy him. He was going to have to make do with paper, and save the whiteboards for presentation. That was rather annoying. Notebooks were easy enough to use, but whiteboards were just so much more convenient, particularly when he was transposing data to his laptop.

Speaking of which…Eric unearthed said object from beneath a few mounds of paper that had somehow managed to submerge it within ten minutes of his arrival. He would have to make an effort to keep this place neat. It wasn't his own office, after all, and he doubted the chaos that was this room's current state would make a good impression on the fine folks of the FBI. As a matter of fact, he was sure of it: the east coast feds had made it quite obvious.

The booting laptop screen blurred slightly before him. 'Not good.'

Finally giving in to his body's exhaustion and caffeine addiction, he stepped from the room and went in search of coffee.

* * *

A cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the Belfall file in the other, Don pushed open the door to the conference room, and stared. 

'What the hell?' How long had this guy been here? Terry had told him he had arrived only about an hour ago, and part of that time had been spent in briefing him on Belfall's demise. Was it possible that this…_junkyard _could be created in the space of a few minutes?

Stepping around an almost-but-not-quite-empty briefcase that lay just inside the door, Don made his way over to the table and the clouds of paperwork that obscured it. On the edge of the table sat an open laptop, but the rest of the mess was pure paper. Scanning said paper with a practiced eye, he picked out reports on the original east coast vics, and all of the newer west coast ones. He spotted a multitude of charts and graphs, and pages and pages of handwritten notes. There were dozens of itty bitty pieces of paper that looked like scrap, and had no place being in an FBI conference room—but then again, judging by the looks of this place, the FBI would just have to get used to it. The table's contents spilled over onto the surrounding chairs, and even the floor seemed well on its way to sharing the poor table's fate: several reports and loose sheets had made their way to ground level, drifting over the carpet like freakishly large and rectangular snow flakes, the monotonous white broken only by the black bulge of a shoulder bag. The only thing he did not see in this jungle of potential paper cuts was any sign of Rosavelasquez.

That changed abruptly when he heard a noise behind him.

Turning at the sound of the door being pushed open, Don Eppes got his first look at Eric Rosavelasquez—and stared.

Coffee and the Belfall file hit the ground simultaneously, but Don didn't notice. He was too wrapped up in his mother's eyes, peering out at him from the gaze of a stranger.


End file.
